User blog:Angel'sEmmissary/The Growing Darkness

The Growing Darkness
=Chapter One: Alea Iacta Est=

The wind howled over the blackened plain, slowly extinguishing the small flames that still burned, fueled by the wreckage of a thousand war engines, strewn over the ashen plain like so many trees, reaped before a terrible storm. Corpses and cadavers lay plentiful over the plains, some half-intact, others strewn aimlessly, missing random body parts. Deep pools of blood formed about the many piles of half-eaten bodies, stacked as high as a ballista frame by the few survivors of the great battle, soaking into the ground, staining the grey soil a dark red. Arms and armor lay about, bent, broken and warped. Crows and vultures circled ceaselessly, ripping the decomposing flesh from dead bodies, cackling their content to the dark skies. All around lay silence and death, enfolding the fields like a blanket.

In the center of the field, stood alone figure, unmoving and silent; A large scythe was gripped in one mailed hand, and the pointed hood revealed nothing to the careful observer. A deep sense of icy foreboding accompanied the figure as it strode twixt piles of wood and stone, startling the many carrion birds from their perches. The figure’s cloak whispered over the short, stiff grass, though the ground remained untouched wherever it stepped. All other objects, including the slain bodies of mouse and weasel alike, took on a new kind of ugliness, as If touched by the son of hellgates himself, lending an eerie darkness to everything in close proximity to the figure. A dim flame burned in the distance, preceded by the prints of many weary paws; the survivors had begun to travel away from the carnage and in the general direction of civilization. The day wore on, though it was difficult to tell apart night and day when in these forbidding territories, and still the figure traveled onward, seeming to glide effortlessly over the hard-packed earth. A steel-gray moon shone dully behind thick black clouds by the time the figure reached the encampment. None of the survivors save a mouse and his companion, an otter of the same age, garbed in a bloodstained tunic with parts of their armor missing, hewn from their garments during the previous conflict. They talked in low voices, looking about fearfully as the stifling darkness pressed in on them.

The mouse wrapped his arms about his stomach, shivering slightly. “Where does this place end?” he wondered aloud. “I’m starving as well, so I hope we reach the end soon.” The otter turned dejectedly towards his companion. “I’m tellin’ ye matey, they don’t end no time soon. I’ve been ‘ere before.” The mouse sighed in response, growing tired of the otter’s unchanging response. “They have to end sometime! No place goes on forever…right?” The otter just sighed and shook his head, growling slightly. “I don’t know anymore, and I’m beginnin’ to think it don’t matter.” The duo fell silent; every small noise magnified a hundred-fold in the pressing darkness. After a while, the otter shifted close to the guttering flames, complaining quietly. “Ahh! I’m feelin’ a good deal colder than before. What about you, matey?” The mouse nodded numbly. “Aye, it does seem that way, doesn’t it?” No sooner had he said this than a soft rustle caught his attention, startling him terribly. “W-who goes there?” he called out fearfully, a trembling paw on the hilt of his short, archer’s sword. “What is it, matey? Do ye see someo-” His voice cut short, coalescing into a gurgling cry as a foot-long blade of black steel protruded from the center of his neck. His eyes rolled upwards, and he grabbed at the blade, slicing his paws deeply on the razor-sharp blade. After a moment, with a rasp of bone on steel, the blade was extracted and the otter fell sideways, slumping to the ground, blood pooling from his nearly-severed neck.

The mouse’s eyes grew wide with terror as he beheld the wielder of the blade; a tall figure dressed in tattered black robes, wielding a monstrous, wicked-looking scythe. The figure stooped, Bringing a mailed paw to the mouse neck and hauling him high into the air. He felt his face thrust close to the empty hood, and a blast of frigid breath hit his whiskers and nostrils, causing him to gag at the sickly sweet scent of the figures breath. It had no visible face, and it spoke in a grating, ice-cold whisper that seemed deafening to the mouse’s large, sensitive ears. “Why do you remain here?” it grated. “You should have died along with your comrades; instead you cower before a flame, wishing for the end of this place.” The scythe blade appeared next to his throat, the glittering edge cutting ever so slightly into his flesh. When it spoke, the figure’s voice was even lower, a deathly whisper. “I can bring about that end for you; would you like that?” it crooned the last words in a soft tone.

The mouse shook his head, the stiffly-held blade cutting even deeper into his neck. The figure shook him slightly. “Then stop shaking your head, fool!” the mouse almost nodded, but thought better of it and said in as loud a voice as he could whisper. “I want to live…just let me go!” He let out a cry of surprise as h was dropped suddenly. The scythe blade appeared once more, this time, directly in his face, snipping the tip from his quivering whiskers. The figures tone was harsh and commanding. “Then leave; all of you! Return not to these grounds, lest you wish to join my spirit in the nameless depths of the dark forest! You are to relay this message to the others of your group. Begone in three day’s time, or I shall pay a return visit.” The figure stepped back, and vanished suddenly among the shadows. The mouse lay on his back, his breathing quick and shallow. One thought ran through his numbed mind constantly; I am alive…I am alive…

The wind picked up its pace, stirring the ragged pennons still affixed to the pikes of their bearers, a testament to what had taken place the previous day. And the night wore on, dark and heavy, suppressing all sounds save the wind, and the distant cawing and cackling of crows as they continued their grisly feast long into the night. And still the mouse lay there, the ashes of his once-bright fire now cold. Another thought pierced his shell-shocked mind; that he had three days to leave, or else…